Reaping Havoc

by AJ Rose

  “Did you compete while in school?” Mitch was amazed. College had been challenging enough for him without the added pressure of being in a competitive sport.

  “We had tutors growing up. Traveled too much time during a regular school year to attend normal classes, so we were considered homeschooled, though our parents hired out the tutoring. Tate and I both got on Dartmouth’s ski team, but we felt kind of cheated out of the goals we’d set for ourselves at the beginning. We could have kept going with college level tutors, but….” He didn’t finish.

  “Well, there’ll be no way you won’t get the job on the mountain then,” Mitch observed. “They’ll be lucky to have you, from the sound of it.”

  “Skiing’s the only thing I really want to do, and I can turn it into a career, though I doubt I’ll ever catch back up to competition levels. Too long a break.”

  “That sort of sucks. I’m sorry.”

  Nate shrugged, looking out the passenger window at the passing scenery. “It is what it is. At least I’m not stuck at a desk job, crunching numbers. That way leads to madness.”

  Mitch laughed, hoping it would lighten the mood. “And now you want to teach me to ski.”

  “Yup,” Nate said, looking at him with a gleam in his eye. “I’ll get you on that mountain.”

  “Okay, okay,” Mitch acquiesced. “If I can’t learn from a highly trained world competitor, I can’t learn at all and there’s no hope for me.” He couldn’t help but wonder how Nate managed his reaper jobs while being busy with his sport, but Mitch figured there were reaps all over the place, and moving from competition to competition was one way to keep people from getting overly familiar with his proximity to death. Then again, Nate had been too young to do reaps at the height of his game. It wasn’t like he could ask him about it without violating Divinity’s code of conduct.

  He’s just as new at this as I am. Maybe that’s why Soul Girl is still here. Deciding to change the subject before he asked something too revealing, Mitch turned the music up, and they amused themselves the rest of the trip by singing along and playing Name That Tune.

  Chapter 9

  Diablo’s Coda

  Normally, the first part of November was too warm for snowmaking, but this year, winter temperatures had arrived early and with sudden sharpness that had the locals commenting on it—even the hearty ones used to severe seasons. The last half of October had seen only three days reach fifty degrees or more, and the average highs by the week after Halloween were upper 30s to low 40s. The resort management had pounced on the opportunity to make snow early in an attempt to squeeze a few extra weeks of business on the front end of the season, firing up the snow canons. Nate was glad. This meant he had to stretch his budget for a shorter duration. The impulse to get Mitch a bunch of stuff had been a little irresponsible, but he didn’t regret it.

  Don’t jump the gun. Get the job first before you start counting paychecks.

  He’d been thrilled to receive the call to be on the mountain for tryouts, and after the fantastic weekend he spent with Mitch, Nate couldn’t have tripped into a bad mood.

  His cheeks were the only skin exposed on his entire body, and the cold felt good. He was too warm in his ski pants, but he knew the minute he felt that familiar downward momentum, he would no longer care. Lined up at the top of an expert run were forty other ski school hopefuls, ready to prove themselves to the three ski school instructors and the director.

  “Welcome to the Caperville Resort hiring clinic. My name is Boomer Hudson, the senior staff manager,” a fortyish man said over the murmurs of the crowd, immediately quieting them. “Today you will be skiing down some of the most difficult runs offered in the entire state of Colorado. We’ve chosen three for today: Backrub, Prayer, and my personal favorite, Diablo’s Coda. Those of you still standing at the end of the final run will be taken to the personnel office, where we will conduct interviews. Returning instructors have already been hired, so there are only three positions available. Any questions?”

  Nate breathed a bit easier. Three trails open this early meant they wouldn’t be competing on a white ribbon of death—the slang term for the only open run at a resort trying to entice early birds to the mountain, thereby forcing them to crowd a single trail—once the season officially began. Whether or not Nate got the job, he’d be able to ski with options on his own time.

  “Why is it called Backrub?” someone said from the end of the line. Nate tried to find the speaker but couldn’t. A few people snickered. Whoever had asked the question was either very green or kind of a smartass.

  “Because when this trail is done with you, you’ll need one. Anyone else?” Boomer asked.

  Nate had a ton of questions, like how the instructors were assigned clients, if there was a probationary period before they could be booked for private lessons, how much the pay was, and what the benefits package was like, but he figured he’d save those for the interview. Now was not the time.

  “Okay then,” Boomer went on. “In a few minutes, Clay and David here will be in position, and we’ll begin. Mr. Stone, the director, will be watching from the bottom to note who finishes cleanly. If you fall on the slope, you’re done. No exceptions, and yes, biffs count as falls.” A biff was when a skier hip-checked the snow but recovered, popping up to finish the run.

  The two other instructors took that as their cue and launched down the hill, presumably to set up positions at points along the run to watch the skiers’ progress and evaluate their skills. The director spoke briefly in Boomer’s ear and went to the lift. He wasn’t wearing skis, so he rode a lift chair down the mountain to camp out at the finish with Boomer’s clipboard bearing all the candidates’ names.

  When one of the three radioed to Boomer they were all good to go, he began thundering out numbers, skipping over the line in apparently random order. Nate quickly understood it wasn’t to rattle them, because they wouldn’t know when their number—pinned to them like a marathon runner’s—would be called. The pattern Boomer chose was designed to give them the widest distance possible from the next skier, leading to fewer potential traffic problems.

  “Twenty-eight. Fifteen. Six. Thirty-two,” he called out, and Nate launched forward at the last one, his number. The snow wasn’t exactly champagne powder, but it wasn’t mashed potatoes either. However, given it was the first week with freshly made snow and not a lot to the base layer, he’d chosen his rock skis, an old pair of racers from his quiver he didn’t care about damaging if he skimmed a rock not fully covered in snowpack. They weren’t the best he owned, but the trick here wasn’t speed, it was technique. The edges may not have been competitive sharp, but he didn’t need them to be.

  The other skiers slowed him down, and he didn’t want to overtake them to look like he was trying to show anyone up. Generally, the others on the run were good, competent, and well-versed enough to know how to deal with a lot of people on the same slope so as not to cut anyone off. Nate was gratified when one guy, who’d gone three or four ahead of him and had been showboating in an attempt to impress the ski instructors, ended up on his ass.

  Nate had to slow a couple times, but overall, he felt like he was flying. The exhilaration of being on the slopes again, cutting fresh tracks with his fellow candidates, feeling the wind on his face and enjoying that muted atmosphere with the snow muffling the chaos of the wider world, swept through his chest and he felt truly alive. The sky was overcast, keeping the bright white from being blinding, and the trees were only dusted with the snow the canons had overshot, not laden with marshmallow branches drooping to the ground. Nate was in heaven. This was where he was born to be.

  Finishing the run solidly, he assessed those standing at the bottom to try and figure out who’d made it and who hadn’t. One guy was completely pissed, yanking his gloves off and using his poles to release his bindings. He didn’t wait for instruction, just gathered his skis and stomped away. A woman with long braids was checking on another woman, who winced as she flexed her back.<
br />
  Backrub indeed. Nate hoped she was okay.

  The radio crackled in the director’s hand, and while the words were indecipherable to anyone trying to listen, the director seemed to have no trouble, checking off numbers on the list. When the radio went silent, he called out the numbers of those going to the second run, Prayer. He thanked the rest for trying and told them to keep an eye on the website throughout the season in case openings arose.

  Prayer was harder than Backrub in that it was more technical, a few more turns and more trees interspersed, but it was also easier because the first trail had bled about fifteen skiers from the ranks. By the time they reached Diablo’s Coda, the most difficult trail in the back country, thirteen remained, and all thirteen reached the bottom without trouble. Nate had some stiff competition.

  They were led to the lodge and into the lobby, where a fire crackled away in an enormous stone fireplace, and someone from the cafeteria-like restaurant stood by with hot chocolate or coffee for anyone who wanted it. One by one, they were called back by number to an office behind the lodge’s registration desk to be interviewed. Nate accepted coffee with grateful thanks and sipped it, trying not to get nervous as he sat on the couch in front of the fire, mesmerized by the burning logs.

  Skiing was the easy part. Marketing himself, he’d never liked.

  “You from here?” one of the other guys asked from the chair beside him.

  “No, New Hampshire. You?”

  “Not far. A-Basin.” That was the Arapahoe Basin ski resort, and it was kind of far, about three hundred miles away through winding mountain passes. Caperville and Keystone, where A-Basin was located, were neighbors compared to New Hampshire’s proximity.

  “And you’re not interested in working closer to home?” Nate asked.

  The guy shook his head. “Competition’s much fiercer there. They brought back all their instructors this year. No openings. Figured my chances were better down here and if something opened up there, I’d have the experience behind me to qualify.”

  “Makes sense. I’m Nate.”

  “Troy.” The guy stuck out his hand for a shake. “You ski really well. Ever do anything competitive?”

  Nate’s lips thinned into a tight line. “Some,” he replied vaguely. “Nothing in this area, though.” His Olympic training had all been done where his parents could keep a thumb on him. “You?”

  “Wanted to, but we couldn’t afford all the equipment. This stuff ain’t for the poor, right?” He pointed to a pair of fairly generic boots that had seen better days, unlike Nate’s Rossignol Experience boots with custom liners molded to his foot, which provided greater stability on turns at speed.

  Nate smiled woodenly, glad they’d all piled their skis in the checkroom at the door so Troy wouldn’t see his Fischers. He knew, backup pair or not, their price tag from three years before had been steep by even today’s standards.

  “Right,” Nate said. Troy appeared incredibly nervous, so even though Nate’s gut tensed at the memory of how his father had used the money in the sport as leverage over his future, he didn’t let his discomfort with the reminder show. “How long you been skiing?”

  “As much as possible since I was seven, but I screwed up my knee in high school and had to take time out for recovery. I’m taking a year off college while I can. My parents aren’t happy about it, but if I don’t do it now, I never will. Ideally, I want to hit all the big resorts in a season, but that’s not possible, so I figure skiing one of the great ones every day and getting paid for it wouldn’t be a bad second option.”

  Nate grinned. “I hear that.” He offered his fist for Troy to bump as his number was called. He stood, nodding at Troy’s murmured “good luck,” and stepped through the doorway into the inner sanctum.

  The three instructors sat around a small round table. Four desks in the room were scattered with papers, and a flat panel monitor on the wall rotated information on the weather and snow-making water, air, and temp levels.

  Nate shook hands with them all and took his seat, his heart giving a small flip at the idea of a three-on-one interview. But hey, he’d faced down a room full of reporters more than once, so he could handle this.

  “You’ve got an impressive resume,” Boomer commented, looking over the piece of paper in front of him. “You’re more than qualified for the position, and based on your skiing today, the time you’ve taken off the last couple years hasn’t slowed you down. But being a ski instructor is about more than sliding down hills with sticks on your feet. People come to Caperville Resort expecting a certain level of service, a certain type of person providing it, and frankly, someone with your background may not make the best choice despite your talent.”

  His palms began to sweat. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

  Boomer leaned forward and folded his hands together. “We’re not looking for people competitive enough to show up our clients by trying to impress them with fancy tricks or pushing them beyond their abilities. This isn’t race training, and we need to know you appreciate the difference.”

  “Ah,” Nate said, relaxing. “I’m not racing anymore, and I’ve left competition behind. I appreciate your candor, so I’ll return the favor. Racing doesn’t interest me now. Skiing does. It’s not about how fast I can go, shaving tenths of seconds off already ridiculous times. It’s about what kind of snow I’m on, how the mountain feels and breathes, appreciating the scenery and breathtaking beauty of a terrain humans weren’t meant to conquer. I love the mountain, any mountain, and I want to pass that love on to people who show an interest in it, giving them a memory they can take home and rave about to other people. If they have a poor instructor, they’ll be too frustrated to find the love of the mountain, and that’s a disservice to everyone.”

  The instructors remained impassive and one of the others, Clay or David, he wasn’t sure, spoke next.

  “Have you ever worked in a service-oriented industry?”

  Nate shook his head. “No, but I’ve been to some of the greatest resorts in the world, and I’ve experienced stellar, as well as horrible, service. I know that can make or break a skier’s enjoyment during their stay. While I’ve never provided such a service, it would be an honor to do so.”

  “The day-to-day scheduling of classes for all levels of skier, and keeping the staff apprised of slope conditions, can be a little overwhelming. We like to keep the guests happy and their day on the slopes as smooth as possible without them realizing the lengths to which we go. How would you maintain the balance between client satisfaction and the focus on the mountain we need you to have at all times so we can run a tight resort?” That was the other instructor.

  Nate took a few moments to consider his words and then answered, “While I’m in classes, the guests would be my focus. Part of that includes keeping an eye on potential hazards. Should I run across anything dangerous or guests in need, I would radio Ski Patrol so they can address any problems. I’d respectfully request my class give me the time to wait for patrol to arrive. As soon as I was able, I’d pass the responsibility to someone in a position to handle the situation immediately and resume my instruction. The client would see we make all our guests’ well-being a priority. Should there be a substantial delay, I would speak to my supervisor about comping the guests if appropriate. I will not ignore hazards on the runs that could endanger anyone. That helps no one.” Least of all, Tate. If they’d cleared that fallen tree before that storm, she wouldn’t have crashed. “But I assume a resort such as this has a fantastic team of groomers who would already be aware of any problems, and we’d be informed before taking our classes out, so I would simply avoid leading anyone into an area of danger based on the day’s condition report.”

  Boomer pursed his lips and steepled his fingers in front of them, considering Nate closely. “Say there’s an avalanche in the back country, and while you’re not swept up in it, you’re near enough that your clients are. What do you do?”

  That one had been drilled into h
im from day one on the slopes. “First, set the beacon from my gear to receive a signal, rather than transmit. As soon as I locate other signals, push a probe through the snow until I hit solid mass and use my shovel to dig them out. If there’s more than one person trapped, keep locating and digging until I find everyone. Maintain constant radio contact with Ski Patrol in case there are injured skiers in need of immediate transport off the mountain.”

  There was a moment of silence and the three exchanged an indecipherable look. Boomer stood first. “Nate, can you excuse us for a moment?”

  “Sure.”

  They disappeared through a door in the back wall, and Nate heard murmurs as they conversed but not what they were saying. He hoped because they weren’t thanking him for his time and saying they’d be in touch, it would be good news, so he sat and fidgeted, sweating in his ski gear.

  When they returned, all three wore broad smiles, which made Nate break into one his own. The other two leaned on the desks while Boomer sat. He passed Nate a manila envelope.

  “Inside is our offer, salary, and benefit information, hours when we schedule classes and private lessons, the details required when we use ski instructors’ images for marketing materials, such as promotional posters or magazine and online ads, and our official opening day of the season. Look it over and let us know in forty-eight hours if the terms are to your liking or if you have questions not answered in the packet. We’d love to have you on-board. Someone with your reputation and background would be a big draw for many of our clientele.”

  Nate’s hand shook as he slid the envelope off the table and stood. “Thank you, sir. I’ll look this over carefully and be in touch soon. I sincerely appreciate the opportunity.”

  Practically floating out of the office, Nate gathered his gear, trying to school his expression apart from a nod to Troy, who still looked anxious. He hurried to his Jeep, his first urge to call Tate, and his euphoria faded a little when he realized that wasn’t possible. For inexplicable reasons, he felt like she knew. Off and on since her death, he’d sometimes be overcome with her… sensation. It was the only word he knew to describe it. He couldn’t smell her or feel anything physical, but the rightness of her being nearby was almost a certainty. He’d felt it in moments here and there since her death, including that weekend when he and Mitch had slept together. Which, in truth, squicked him out a little. Hopefully, if she was haunting him, she hadn’t been hanging around the whole time on his date with Mitch.